Mystery Malchick
by TheWeasleyBoys
Summary: 2/12  "Of course I could go through a prodding and poking session for the doctors' amusement.  That would make my day."  Sequel to 'Nachinat', Pete-centric final chapter.  Comments welcome.   FINISHED
1. Chapter 1:  Greg

**Disclaimer:** I didn't write the book and I didn't make the movie. That's all I have to say about that. Next time around…I'm just putting down 'Author's Note' because there's only so many times you can disclaim something. 'Nuff said.

**Author's Note:** Is it just me, or does the 'Ladies' Choice' song from Hairspray remind anyone else of those record-store nymphos…? Sometimes I wonder, now…did that old 'one thing lead to another' come up with an _other_…? And isn't it a funny little coincidence that the first tropical storm of this year gets named _Alex_?

(cough)

That might be an interesting path to follow, if any writers out there are interested. By all means, let it percolate in your mind for a while and then become a new story. Consider yourself encouraged.

Anywho…first there was one, then there were two, and now there are _three_ comment-loving folks checking me out as of late. I wonder if I could get a fourth before too much longer…? Hehheh! ;) You guys know who you are, and I appreciate the time you take to leave nice feedback for me on a regular basis. Kudos to Chaos, Panda, and Straha, along with a giant thank you! :) And now…who's ready for more?

**Mystery Malchick**

"Is he awake yet?"

John and Matthew had started in on the morning coffee when I came downstairs to join them, wanting to sharpen up my senses for the appearance of our newest guest. The morning, as well as the rest of the day, belonged to we three due to no appointments or other scheduled events to worry about. We had all been able to wear something else besides the usual gray uniforms, as Christmas had been named a national holiday and everyone from the youngest student to the oldest worker had been given that day off. However, even though I was glad to escape the office, there would be no vacation from my other, more secretive occupation of tending to whatever stray human arrived at my door.

"Is he awake yet?"

"We heard you the first time, Greg," John laughed, pretending to shake a finger at me. "And to answer you, I think I heard the floor creak a few times about thirty minutes ago. He hasn't come down the stairs yet, but there you are."

"You don't suppose he hurt himself again, do you?" Matthew asked, glancing at the landing behind me.

"On the floorboards?"

I couldn't help but laugh that question off, because I was in no mood to fear the worst that early in the morning. We'd seen our latest mystery man make the right decision by staying with us that night, and not going back into the snow in his injured state. He'd had a cool glass of water with my help; he'd received some much-needed medical attention from Matthew; and, after a good cry for reasons unknown to me, finally settled down to sleep in the guest bedroom. I was looking forward to showing him the rest of my house, and if he was fully alert as well as fully hungry and thirsty, try to give him whatever kind of breakfast he asked me for. How, then, would anything have gone wrong in only half an hour?

"He did look rather worn out, but I doubt he's clumsy. He definitely had no trouble getting to the doorstep, did he?"

"Only after tearing his feet to ribbons by walking, that is."

"Well, maybe he just needed a new pair of shoes."

"_Those_ weren't shoes," John said. "Those were a genuine pair of kicking boots."

For a split second, my mind traveled back to the first time I saw John hiding behind the woodpile in my backyard. He'd been dressed in black instead of white, but his boots were almost exactly the same…and just like our guest, he'd almost succeeded in hurting me.

Talk about your déjà vu, right?

"Right, so…what does that have to do with him?"

"It's not just the clothes, Greg. I used to sweat like that in the cold, too."

"So you think he's also…" I mimed sticking a needle into my arm; then raised my eyebrows.

"Let's just say he wasn't the only one who liked to feel good sometimes. It takes one to know one, right?"

He talked so casually, so openly about it as though everyone in Britain did that sort of thing for fun. That just couldn't be possible, not since I'd only ever seen two such people in my life who could have done it regularly. Everyone else seemed like normal, clean, and sober law-abiding citizens. Whatever drug or other substance John was referring to, they wouldn't have known about it, let alone want to take it…would they?

"Yes, well…"

I had to take a deep breath or two to get rid of the strange images that threatened to take over my mind. No, there were only two such people like who I'd seen and who had ever come to my door. I knew nothing about the rest of society here and I wouldn't want to find out, for I had enough of a society of my own under my own roof. The rest could remain as mere shadows until I was ready to find out otherwise. After I'd regained control of my thoughts, only then could I bring myself to continue the debate.

"…I don't think he'd do any _more_ dangerous things here, would he? I mean to say…whatever he just got done using, I'm sure he didn't bring any more of it along with him."

"And we've known this kid for how long?" Matthew asked, pushing away his half-empty cup. "Thirty minutes? Forty? Did any of us check his pockets before or after he passed out?"

"No…?"

"And we didn't go check after he conked out, did we?"

"No, I'm sure we didn't."

"All right, so what do we do about it?"

All of us looked towards the staircase before I got to my feet, my mind reeling with the thousand or more questions I hoped our patient could answer. I'd wanted to have a peaceful morning with my friends, yet already my mind was working against that little plan. Lovely.

First off, even though he hadn't used it against us, he'd still brought a knife into my house like some common criminal, and if he'd come to us fully healthy instead of lethargic and miserable, he could have caused us all sorts of harm with it. Second, even though none of his bones were broken, he still had the same torn, bloodstained clothing as someone who had just been in a fight. If he had been at his full strength, he could have taken John down before doing the same to Matthew and me. And, most importantly, even though he had most likely slept it off by now, there could still be a chance that our mystery man's addictions hadn't yet faded out of his system. What if he mistook us for his dealers in a fit of delirium and, thinking we no longer wanted to sell him any more stashes, believed he could go on with his bad habits by killing us and taking whatever we'd hidden in our pockets? We three could end up dead on the floorboards before noon, and all because I hadn't been wise enough to fear the worst.

On the other hand, he hadn't been the first to come to my door in a state of miserable injury, wanting nothing more than a safe place to hide, to rest, and to heal from everything the outside world had given him. Two years ago, there had been one other person wandering through the snow to finally meet me, barely able to see through two black eyes and almost unintelligible due to a few of his teeth getting knocked out. Two years ago, I'd also given that one other person temporary refuge in my humble home, and after a series of highs and lows, his path kept bringing him back to my door for the somewhat positive habits of word games and glasses of wine on two nights out of each month. I must have had some good effect on him, for at this moment, he stood between me and Matthew, eager to help out any way he could in this matter before us. That left one success story to my name, but still, there was no way to tell if I could repeat the procedure with another. What worked with John could spell disaster for the mystery man, for all we knew.

It was, therefore, a bit unnerving to rap my knuckles three times upon his door, for there was no telling what we could find if and when we were permitted to enter. We would have to keep our good wits about us, and so steel ourselves up for whatever came our way.

"Er…good morning in there?"

It wasn't the best greeting in the world, but at least it might help us be allowed inside.

"I don't know if you heard us moving around downstairs, but ah…the morning coffee's ready and waiting. D'you want some?"

I received no reply but a whimper from within, meaning that any and all sorts of mishaps could have happened long before we climbed the stairs.

"O-_kay_, no coffee, then. No harm done. How about the newspaper, then? Would you like that instead?"

This time, there was no reply at all to my question but silence, and with it, my apprehension grew. What could have possibly gone on in there while the rest of us were downstairs? Had he taken a fall from the bed and suffered a major injury? Had he slipped headfirst and bruised his own skull by accident? Barely thinking, I knocked three more times upon the door, not bothering to wait for an answer.

"Look, Mr.…Whomever-You-Are, we three don't know what's going on, but if there's something you need, could you at least open the door, perhaps? We won't get anywhere trying to walk through walls, will we?"

We heard another small whimper from inside; the sounds of ragged breathing and dragging limbs; and finally, the slight creak of him opening the door wide enough to allow us entry. We found him close to the entrance one moment later, swaddled like a cocoon in the blankets he'd borrowed from the guest bed. He'd been sound asleep for at least twelve hours; yet the circles under his eyes registered no change in his sleep schedule. Instead, he looked as pale as the moment we first brought him inside, and he appeared to have bundled himself up to fight off some horrible chill that the rest of us neither felt nor took notice of. He gave us all a lifeless, empty expression when I moved to stand before him, almost as though he'd just awakened from a nightmare and barely believed that the rest of us were real. For all I knew, he could have been trapped in a living nightmare long before he found my house. If so, no wonder he had arrived fully armed and prepared to kill something…or someone.

"That's better, isn't it?"

With John and Matthew behind me, I chanced a slight walk to where our guest sat, forcing myself to stay calm and not give into the stress that came with a venture into unknown territory. He flinched just a little bit as I knelt down beside him for a closer look.

"Well well, still tired, are we? Not quite up to scratch at the moment, are we?"

He didn't talk, but instead glanced halfway back at me as though trying to meet my eyes and avoid them all at once. I didn't know what to make of that, so I tried again:

"Friend, you aren't looking too well this morning. How do you feel?"

He said something in response to my question, only it was too quiet for me to hear properly.

"Sorry, what was that again?"

"_Terrible_."

His voice was slow and raspy and sounded like he'd tried going without speaking for some time now. Curious.

"Oh, yes, believe me, it's terrible. Wasps in my head and needles in my eyes and knives digging into my feet. It's not pleasant, oh no."

"Ah, I see…"

For safety's sake, I took a quick look at the floor to make sure he hadn't disturbed his bandages, or worse, reinjured himself. Thankfully, unlike the downstairs, this time the floorboards were spotless.

"…Well, is-is there anything you could take for that? Some kind of medicine, maybe?"

"Medicine? _Medicine_? You think there's a cure for this? You think some little pill can fix me, _friend_?"

He switched from lethargy to annoyance so fast, I had to move away a few steps.

"I meant for your pain," I said slowly, not wanting to further provoke him. "It's not right to make a person sit in their agony and not try to help, is it?"

"What if I want to be in agony?"

"Then I'll try and convince you to do otherwise."

"And if I refuse you again?"

"I'll ask John and Matthew to help me get you to the hospital."

"And if I bite anyone who comes near me?"

"Look, you're not going to bite anyone," I retorted, feeling a little annoyed myself. "I'm here to help you, remember? We're all here to help you."

"What makes you think I need any help?"

"Look at yourself for a minute. Think. What's going on right now? Why do you have the sweats and the mood swings? Why are you in so much pain?"

"Well, 'friend', that all depends. What is it that interests you about my pain? I'm nothing special. Why bother yourself with me and mine?"

"Ah, well, I _couldn't_ be a second-level doctor, could I?" I snapped, no longer holding back. "No, of course I couldn't. I'm just pretending to be helpful because I'm bored and wanting a laugh out of tricking you, aren't I?"

"Doctor…? You're a doctor?"

"Why the sterile room, idiot? Why the spare bed and all the bandages? Is that any way to talk to someone who let you in out of the cold?"

I glared down at him and waited for an answer, all the while watching his eyes grow big and listening to him breathe without making a sound. If he hadn't looked so ill already, I'd have wanted to send him straight to the nearest head-doctor and have them deal with him instead of me. His mind games were no way to help me give him a proper diagnosis for his condition, that is, if these symptoms could even be labeled as such.

On the other hand, he had a strange look about him after I snapped at him. It was almost as though I'd just slapped him in the face and punched him in the stomach at the same time. I knew that would be no real way to get answers, of course, yet I went ahead and did it anyway. Because all he did was give me questions to answer and not the other way around, I had to admit, I was no longer in the greatest of moods.

"Excuse me? Do you _even_ recognize what's happening to you?"

"I can't breathe."

"Well, small wonder there, isn't it?" I laughed, still feeling horribly frustrated. "What gives, friend? Did you mix up your own mind instead of mine?"

"I _can't_ breathe! I can't swallow!"

He began to rub frantically at his throat as though trying to loosen something that had stuck there. I knew he couldn't be choking because he'd had nothing to eat or drink besides one glass of water, and he had no trouble whispering or snapping at me. He still showed too many symptoms to be considered healthy, however, and to figure out his ailment, I would have to get him to agree to an examination.

That is, if I could somehow persuade him to listen to me first.

"All right, all right now, try to calm down. We can fix this. I just need to know if—"

His entire body suddenly arched towards the ground, and before I could finish my sentence, a pale brown mess had stained the carpet in front of him.


	2. Chapter 2:  John

**Author's Note:** Sometimes I feel like a crew-less astronaut…stuck with an omniscient robot, far from home…

(ahem)

It looks like I just may be the one writer here who updates more than once every few months. Shame…I was so hoping I wouldn't be lonely in this spot any more. Oh, well…as the French say, c'est la vie. If I'm the only one who fantasizes about someone other than Mr. Humble Narrator as well (and writes stories about him and his _canon_ wifey), so be it. At least I've exercised my power of choice in the matter.

Anywho…now that I got Greg's (guy from the original novel ending) point of view down, this time I move onto my ODC/Original Droog Character's point of view, writing entirely through John's eyes and seeing if he can be just as interesting. Here goes nothin', devotchkas and malchicks.

**John**

Time truly did fly for the purest of impure souls that walk among us.

One minute ago, or so it felt to me sometimes, I was one step behind my leader and side-by-side with our two other droogs, making our way out of the sinny only to realize that someone had stolen our car. Before we could figure out their names and return the favor, a team of red-shirted demons with human faces were upon us, gaining the full advantage over our gang because they'd had some more milk with knives and ours had worn off already. That had brought me to a house with two strangers; two brushes with alcoholism following the surprise attack; and two years of feeling like the odd, freakish man out when it came to those two friends' future meetings. I developed a good edge to my personality that tried not to speak unless spoken to; clocked in and out of his work shifts on time; and never did anything rash after his shifts ended for the day; but not without making the not-so-good part of myself cry out in disbelief over the way I was abusing him.

One minute after that, I received the funniest sense of déjà vu when a very pale malchick lost his own milk in front of me. He came to us with no name, no identification, and gave us no sense of whereabouts his age might be; yet he made me remember every one of the old days the moment he baptized Greg's white carpet with the contents of his stomach. After two years of playing the straight and narrow, it was a little edifying to have another wild hog of the road around to help me feel less freakish in these domestic surroundings. We were evenly matched now, in a way—two good and two not-so-good, brought together in the oddest of circumstances on Christmas Day, of all days. The good half of me couldn't stop scratching his head in disbelief, but the not-so-good quietly chuckled his approval at this lovely turn of events.

"S-Stupid milk-plus…"

While Matthew rolled his eyes and Greg stammered out an apology for his temper, our mystery guest wiped whatever mess was left from his mouth and tried standing up, only to find out that his legs weren't exactly up to the task just yet. He shivered from head to foot for a solid ten seconds; then wobbled sideways into my waiting arms.

_Birds of a feather, and all that cal,_ I thought to myself with a tiny smirk.

"I knew we should have checked his pockets," Matthew said aloud, stepping forward and doing his best impersonation of some super moral authority. "There you are, it's obvious he's going into drug withdrawal. What now, Greg? Should we get him off to the hospital?"

"I've got a better idea," I began, bracing the kid against my right arm and pretending to break a bottle against the brown spot with my left. "I christen thee…'Synthemesc'!"

He started snorting so suddenly, so faintly, that I couldn't help but wonder whether or not he was worrying himself into breathing problems. His fit of the shakes definitely had not slowed down, and neither had that wasted, empty look in his eyes faded away. For all I knew, he could have thought himself to be so much of a failure that he'd resigned himself to a steady diet of Korova cocktails. At least he would have had something else to think about besides his own misery or, if he was busy running in and out of the Land, he wouldn't have had to think about anything at all.

On the other hand, last night he'd just about bawled his poor eyes out for any and all bad reasons under the sun. He might not have done so if Greg hadn't given him the water, yet all the same, it might have been his first real release of emotion since the original, miserable event he'd suffered through. Was there a possibility that his symptoms didn't come from a physical sickness, but rather a mental one? He'd only thrown up on the rug once, after all, and even then, he did not look violently unwell to me. And hadn't Greg asked him to calm down before it happened?

There could be some hidden link here that I hadn't discovered yet. I would have to take my chances and, if humor turned out to be the key to finding that link, keep following that route until our mystery man's problem was solved.

"Oh, so you think that's funny, do you?" I continued, conveniently ignoring the funny looks Matthew kept sending me. "Looks like you just blessed the floor there. Too bad you can't do the same to the rest of the room, though, we could have turned it into a chapel."

"What are you doing?" Greg whispered to me.

"Just play along," I answered him, watching the kid start to tremble with laughter instead of nerves. My comment on the holiness of Greg's doctor practice room hadn't gone over his head after all. Instead, he could have taken it better than I thought for what it was—a weak but hopefully effective attempt at humor on my part. Whatever I was doing here, as crazy as it looked, I had a good feeling that it was working.

"Oh, well, at least it'll keep the vampires away from us, right? We should all be so safe, shouldn't we?"

Another little shiver, a few more snorts, and then the kid burst out laughing for real.

"Ha ha ha ha ha…oh, noooooo, not the vampires…ha ha ha…oh oh my, oh dear…"

He looked and sounded so much like that cartoon chipmunk on Statefilm that I started laughing out loud, too. As bad as things had been a short time ago, I was glad to have made it all seem a little less tense.

"Everyone!"

Matthew just didn't know how to handle it that day, though, for it was him that got in the way both physically and verbally. Such a shame, it was, that he didn't know how to laugh every once in a while.

"Just _when_ do we plan on getting some rug cleaner and taking care of this mess?"

"Lovely idea, Matthew," I said, not wanting to be sent out of the room just yet. "We'd have never thought of it by ourselves. When do you plan to help clean up?"

"Greg?"

"I have to look a few things up in my books," Greg said, keeping a curious eye on our visitor., "Hope that's not a problem."

Matthew looked mutinous for all of ten seconds; then let his frustration go away as quickly as it had originally come.

"Very well, I'll go downstairs for a moment. Come get me if there's any change."

"Right." 

Once he'd gone off on his way and left me and Greg with our patient, I made sure our guest sat down again before I went to get him his second glass of water. This time, however, I got a washbasin from under the sink and a handful of paper towels so that he could clean up a bit. If there was one thing he didn't need right now, it was that leftover acid giving him tooth decay.

"Here you are. Swish this around in your mouth and then spit it out. It'll get rid of the bad aftertaste, trust me."

"Why should I?" His tone was suddenly gloomy, suddenly pouty. "There's nobody here to get mad over my bad breath. Why should I be upset, then? What's the point in doing anything about it?"

On the outside, I just shrugged. On the inside, some part of my mind made note of that remark and saved it for later use. Some time before he came here, he'd been around someone else who obsessed about good appearances…but _who_? 

"You might get mad if you lose the rest of your teeth to rot," I warned. "Best to do as you're told today, eh?"

"All right."

He took a small mouthful in and did as I asked him. In the meantime, I saw Greg flipping through the pages of some reference book before stopping on a chapter and running a finger down it. It was too bad I was too far away to read over his shoulder, otherwise I might have been able to see just what he was hoping to find there.

"So…what's up, Doc?" I joked, trying and failing miserably to imitate that Yankee cartoon rabbit. "What's the prognosis? Is it the measles or the mumps?"

"It's not the normal illnesses I'm worried about," he muttered, frowning at the page and flipping to a different section. "Some symptoms match withdrawal, yes…but the others suggest something else. Something tells me this might not entirely be a physical problem."

"Oh? How so?"

"Let me take a look at Chapter 15 for a moment. I'll tell you when I've found something." 

"Right. That's all right with me."

Since I had a few minutes to myself what with Greg reading and Matthew off fetching this and that, I figured to myself that now would be a good time to try and learn our guest's name. Keeping this thought in mind, I turned my attention back to him and saw that he'd used half the water to wash out his mouth with. I could have done a number of things to break the ice between us—invited him to wash his hand off as well, asked if he wanted a refill so that he could take another drink, offered to get him a book to read while we waited. That would have been if I wasn't a very direct person, however, for I didn't really like following a path of conversation as slow as I possibly could follow it. To me, talking a little quicker than that held more joy, mainly because it helped me arrive at a certain answer at a pace I was truly comfortable with.

"So, little mystery man of mine…do you have a first name, or do we just call you Mr. E from now on?"

He glanced halfway towards me; then spit out the last of his water into the basin.

"I want a toothbrush."

"Sorry, I think we're in the wrong office for that sort of thing. What's your name?"

"All right, do you have any paper towels, then?"

He looked a little weak, all right, but that didn't stop him from being stubborn.

"The last time I was in here, Greg had them stored under the sink."

"Good. Maybe they haven't moved since then. Might I have two sheets, please?"

"Will you tell me what your name is if I do?"

His expression switched instantly from a scowl to a smug grin. "Maybe."

"All right…"

That, and he knew exactly how to play mind games with me so that he could avoid giving me what I had asked from him. Once a Nadsat, always a Nadsat, or so the old saying went. How on earth did _I_ manage not to drive Greg crazy with my own behavior? Had I been this difficult when I first showed up, or had I behaved even worse…?

"Here we are."

The moment I opened the door of that cupboard beneath the sink, I saw the paper towels were still there. That allowed me to get what the kid wanted and, after he'd wiped each sheet across his teeth to clean them, try to learn his name again.

"Now, since I just did something for you…do you think you could do something for me in return?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know…if I wanted to get your attention—theoretically, that is—what name would I have to shout across the room to do so?"

That smug look never left his face. "Dale the Chipmunk."

He was stubborn, all right. I could be rather stubborn, too, however.

"What name would I use if I _wasn't_ trying to make someone else laugh?"

"Chip the Teacup."

"Again with the movie games," I sighed, pretending to roll my eyes. As funny as this had to be for him, unfortunately, he was the only one laughing at the moment. Everyone else was either too involved in their books, absent from the room, or bordering on extreme annoyance to join in, let alone go on asking until he bothered to tell the truth. If he kept this act up and I didn't stop feeling annoyed anytime soon, there was always the chance I might lose control of my temper and try hitting the truth out of him. That was the one thing I didn't want to do today, because it was clear to me that he'd fought enough and needed a rest for once. I wouldn't be helping him as I wanted to do if I let my old habits get the best of me.

On the other hand, if he didn't want to talk at all right now, what was the point of trying to force the issue? I'd already asked his name four times, and each time, he'd refused to tell me anything besides asking questions of his own and giving me names out of cartoons. Would it be so bad if I waited until he felt a bit more relaxed for me to speak up again and ask his name one last time?

"It's all about the sinny with you, little brother. Why can't you just—"

That was the moment I realized I'd just answered my own question. In the past, I'd used normal English to trick some person on the street into giving me money for the train, and then I'd use that money to help me and my gang get horribly drunk on the strongest beer we could find. It was also how we'd convince some girls to come drink with us, only to have them show us a good time once they were too shitfaced to say no. I could, therefore, use some old Nadsat to make Mr. E. finally introduce himself if, of course, he didn't mind those slovos and also wanted to govoreet back to me. Another foolish plan it was, yet it was the least I could do to help our new friend out.

"W-what…what was that word, again?"

At least I'd already gotten his attention, right?

"The slovo I govoreeted was the slovo I meant, bratty," I began, dropping my voice to a whisper on purpose. "You speak and think too much like the Statefilm audience. Why filly around? Thou art safe inside this mesto. Time to be serious for uncle, right right?"

He stared at me in silence for some time, yet after a minute or so, along came his answer:

"Right right."

"Horrorshow, little brother. Your eemya now, and we'll say no more." 

"Peter Clancy." 

"So uncle Greg can hear you, droogie."

"I'm Peter Clancy."

And lo and behold, that was the exact time that Greg looked up from his book and heard our mystery malchick say his name.

"What was that you said, friend? Peter…something-or-other?"

"Clancy. _Pete_. Greg, I'm Pete!"

"Well, well." He looked from Pete to me and back again, clearly impressed. "And just in time, too. I think I might have found the problem."

"Problem…?"

"Your illness, Pete. There's a list of symptoms I'm going to read to you first, and then I'll want you to tell me if you have or have not experienced them. Is that all right?"

Some remnant of his nerves showed up again in his eyes, yet he nodded just the same.

"Good. You said you felt like you had needles in your eyes before?"

"Right. And then there were the knives in my feet and the wasps in my head, too."

"Of course, of course…headaches?"

"Not yesterday, but I feel one coming on right now."

"M-hm…"

I heard the scratch of a pen upon paper then, which meant that Greg had to be checking off each symptom as he matched them up. Lucky him. I could never remember all those details like the ones he had in his books. Even in the dentist's office, I had to jot down reminders to myself so that I forgot nothing about each patient I took care of every day. Small wonder I ended up there, then, and not in some hospital like he did.

"..We saw you go pale; so that's one…sweating and shaking, that's two more…does your mouth feel dry at all?"

"No."

"You did think you had trouble breathing and swallowing, though, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes," Pete whispered, shivering one last time. "That never happened to me before. Usually I don't have no trouble, but today…"

"I see."

Another few scratches of the pen, a quick re-read of his own notes, and then:

"Just one more question for you, then, Pete."

"Yes…?"

"Exactly how long have you suffered through these panic attacks, and not bothered to tell anyone about them?"


	3. Chapter 3: Matthew

**Author's Note:** A young canon Miss has finally knocked on the door of my inspiration, and I was there to answer her one second afterward. Henceforth, I've put 'Romance' right where 'Suspense' used to be, because I feel that's the safest way to introduce her and Pete can thank me later. I've also taken a page or two from 'Jesus Christ Superstar' and used some of Judas' doubts from the beginning to shape this original male character's personality a little further. Hope it works. Anywho…here's chapter three, my lovelies.

**Matthew**

For the longest time, I thought my life was safe from all evil.

Indeed, by all outward appearances, it should have been. I never drank too much or smoked too many, and I avoided all those illegal drug places like the plague. I never let myself get hopelessly tied to junk food, either. That was how I kept my good health in order.

I never lied to my parents about my marks or cheated during class. Any time the teacher had to use the paddle, it was always for someone else but me. That was how I kept my permanent record in order. I always looked both ways before crossing the street, and encouraged others to do the same. That was how I kept my safety in order.

I never charged any of my customers a cent more than what was due, and I always went out of my way to help them get what they needed. That was how I kept my workplace's reputation in order.

I never prayed too loudly in church, or for that matter, make a scene if there was something in the homily I disagreed with. That was how I kept my spirit in order. I never drove a mile over the speed limit, or let myself get lost in a fit of road rage. That was how I kept my respect of the law in order.

Above all, I never thought twice about leaving a little something in the donation box; keeping a cool head; and doing whatever my superiors asked of me, wherever I found them, whenever they asked me to get this or that task completed.

Again, by all outward appearances, I could not ever feel the temptation to let evil seep into my life. I was a productive member of society. I was safe, and I saw no reason why I would ever want to throw my order away.

That all changed the night a pack of speed demons almost ran me into an early grave.

One second, I was on the road; the next, I had just barely made it into the ditch before their hellish chariot killed me. I was left alone with my reeling thoughts and pounding heart while they continued into the night, their heartless laughter trailing behind them as they went. I had almost died from vehicular homicide. I had almost been run over in a violent rampage. If I hadn't been blessed with good reflexes, I could have easily been turned into a bleeding pulp wrapped in glass and sheet metal, left like a piece of garbage by the roadside for someone else to pick up.

It was a miracle, then, that I survived.

With my heart still pounding, I slowly stretched one limb at a time, just in case I'd missed getting injured by those Berserkers. Once I could be sure that my arms and legs weren't broken, I carefully turned my head from side to side, only to discover that I hadn't even suffered a sprain in the attack. I had survived, all right, but there was no telling if anyone else would be as lucky as me. Something told me those speed demons were far from finished where their rampage was concerned, although I had no clue about what they'd do next. Neither did I have any idea on why, somehow, they were allowed to run free into the night and follow no rules while I'd been held to several codes of behavior for my entire life. What I did know is that I wanted to go straight to Greg's house, and stay there until I felt sane and well enough to venture back outside again. Once I had a glass or two of Riesling and won a few Scrabble matches, I was sure my sense of order would win out in the end, letting me drive home peacefully and rest easy that same night.

Unfortunately, the chaos caused by those interlopers was far from over. Just as I was about to ask Greg just how long he thought that footballer's strike would drag on, we both heard a muffled screech from just outside the back door.

"Oh, God, not again," I'd blurted out as Greg had rose to go outside. He'd gotten one hand on the door before turning to look back at me curiously.

"Not again? Not again what, exactly?"

"Interruptions," I'd improvised, only half-lying through my teeth. "My ride here was interrupted, and now our game's suffered the same fate."

"Yes, well…that didn't sound like just any old interruption to me."

He had the door wide open by now, letting in an icy draft as he searched the backyard for the source of the noise. Leave it to him to show no fear, even when some hellish army could have fallen down on us at any second.

"What if someone just got hurt out there?"

"We don't know that," I said quickly, wanting nothing but to finish our game and our drinks. "It could have just been some cat who got its tail stepped on by accident. How about we go back inside and forget the whole thing?"

"We don't know it isn't a cat," he mumbled, still lost in his perfect little Good Samaritan world. "Suppose it's someone we know out there? We should probably—"

Greg received an interruption of his own when the screech came again, only twice as loud and straight by the woodpile at the same time.

"—The medical kit!"

He'd gone halfway down the walking path before I caught up to him, my heart pounding once again.

"What? For who? I don't see—"

"—_There_."

One gesture from Greg, and suddenly we both saw a crouched, bleeding figure exactly ten steps away from where we stood. As we would find out later, he originally looked swarthy and dark-eyed; yet at this moment, his eyes were too swollen from bruising to see, and he could barely speak as well from losing some teeth. That didn't stop him from hearing us talk, however, for he turned and pointed in our direction on the spot.

"What's he doing? What's he pointing at?"

"_You-u-u_…"

"Hush, Matts, I think he's trying to speak."

His speaking was garbled, broken; a mix between moaning and lisping, or so it sounded to my ears. It was as though an alien in a black uniform and black boots had been dropped from the sky, conveniently without a mother ship or an understandable form of communication. I was careful to keep my distance from this strange fellow, just in case he started offering prayers to Ctulhu or began humming the five notes from 'Close Encounters'. I wish I could have said the same for Greg, of course, but he had gone to stand by the stranger before I had time to protest.

"Well, well, ran into some trouble, have we?"

He'd reached down to help the stranger up, only to almost get strangled instead. Thank goodness he'd had enough sense to push him away before his attacker's full strength kicked in. And thank goodness, also, that I'd found the garden rake just in time to give that attacker a good whack to the backside. Back then my actions taught John, as we would come to know him later, not to go choking the first person who tried to help him up off the ground. It was what made him go inside for some much-needed medical attention, as well as teach him a little respect for one's hosts whether or not he got invited to their parties in the future. It also put some order back into our gatherings, for once his health, appearance, and sanity got back to their proper places, so also did we become a trio where our games and conversations were concerned.

We continued safely with this routine for two years running or so, after which another interruption came, this time from the front door instead of the backyard. He'd tried asking for water only to fall down unconscious, almost hitting his head on the tile floor inside. As relieved as I was that he hadn't tried attacking Greg like John had tried to do, I still feared the worst. His uniform was white where John's had been black, he'd brought some strange, old walking stick along, and he wore a similar set of black boots. There was a vile pattern seeping into Greg's household through these two strangers, and if he hadn't asked me to help John carry him in, I would have been more than content to leave it outside with our latest newcomer. Both could have frozen in the snow that way, and there would have been no threat to me or my own to worry about.

As always, though, Greg had to go and play the Good Samaritan once again, which meant I had to help out by washing and bandaging the little upstart's injured feet. Thank goodness he'd had enough sense by then to hold still while I did it, otherwise I might have considered letting him catch an infection instead. It was enough, though, that he'd already been disarmed by that point. It was enough to make the three of us take off the dark glasses we'd been wearing, and then invite him to stay over for the night. Something about our behavior had drawn him in to do just that, give or take one glass of fresh water and a weeping fit before he finally dozed off. John and Greg would later sleep as easily as our latest guest, dropping off as soon as they found a comfortable place to lie down and bundle up. I wish I had their resolve to do the same, or at least their nerves of steel. As much as no harm had come to any one of us, this time, I could not put my thoughts back in order no matter how hard I tried.

There was something familiar about this one stranger, I was certain. His very appearance at the door had made me look twice at him, maybe even three times as we were carrying him inside. What was it about him that kept me awake? Could he have been some old classmate of mine that went down the wrong path, only to cross ours completely by surprise? A bully from my school days, maybe? Or, worst of all, could he have been one of those Berserkers that almost succeeded in killing me two years ago?

Until the morning came and allowed me to find out for myself, I had dozed off at around midnight or so, and then dreamed of black beasts and ghostly white creatures with roaring voices, shining eyes, and teeth as sharp as knives. Some eight hours later, I awoke in a cold sweat to hear the sounds of John making coffee and humming to himself. The difference between my nightmare and our somewhat domestic lifestyle was sharp, but there was also a fine line resting between the two. I had to know where one ended and the other began. Once I'd rubbed the sleep from my eyes and climbed up from my place on the couch, I walked over and pinched his arm as hard as I could.

"_Ow_! Christ, what the hell was that for?" he shouted, glaring at me as he yanked his arm away.

"Just making sure I was truly awake," I answered, wishing I could have laughed out loud at the look on his face. He and Greg were so very trusting of this newcomer, unfortunately. They were so trusting, he could have stabbed them to death last night and they would never have seen it coming. He hadn't, of course, but the creaking above us for the next thirty minutes suggested that he had woken up with the rest of the household. I half expected to see our latest stray human join us for a cup of the old breakfast blend, or, if he wanted to be as scary as he had been last night, come running down the stairs with that knife in his hand, prepared to slice us all to ribbons. It was Greg who came downstairs instead, not wasting any time on asking after his new patient. Neither of us had found out anything yet, at least not from the table where we sat drinking our hot coffee and thought silently to ourselves. Our answers came as soon as we joined the new kid in Greg's practice hospital room, where a round of questions made him nervous enough to vomit onto the carpet.

If his sweating and shaking didn't tell us anything before, his getting sick like that did, at least to me. All the warning signs of his drug use were right in front of our good Doctor himself. Why, then, did he refuse to acknowledge it?

"I knew we should have checked his pockets," I snapped, one step away from giving Greg and John my biggest, wettest raspberry. "There you are, it's obvious he's going into drug withdrawal. What now, Greg? Should we get him off to the hospital?"

"I've got a better idea," John announced, still not taking the situation as seriously as he should have. "I christen thee…'Synthemesc'!"

Leave it to John to crack jokes! This 'patient', whoever he was, was clearly going into convulsions and all our friend could do was laugh about it! What on earth was this world coming to?

"Oh, so you think that's funny, do you?" he went on, oblivious to the truth. "Looks like you just blessed the floor there. Too bad you can't do the same to the rest of the room, though; we could have turned it into a chapel."

"What are you doing?" Greg hissed, finally seeing reason.

"Just play along," John answered, thus labeling our problem a mere game for children. Any more games, and our mystery man would suffocate to death. Didn't a doctor's oath include the words 'Do No Harm'? 

"Oh, well, at least it'll keep the vampires away from us, right? We should all be so safe, shouldn't we?"

_Vampires?_ I wanted to yell, and hopefully while knocking them all out with my fists. _What do vampires have to do with anything?_

I didn't have to wonder for long, though. Quite surprisingly, our latest patient burst out into laughter right then and there, his weak state taking a back seat to John's sense of humor.

"Ha ha ha ha ha…oh, noooooo, not the vampires…ha ha ha…oh oh my, oh dear…"

One second later, John had to go and join in, which made me all the angrier. It sounded like they were having a laugh at my expense, and that was something I just could not handle. I would owe them both an answer for this stupidity later, make no mistake.

"Everyone! Just _when_ do we plan on getting some rug cleaner and taking care of this mess?"

"Lovely idea, Matthew," John answered, a sickening smirk crossing his face. "We'd have never thought of it by ourselves. When do you plan to help clean up?"

"Greg?"

"I have to look a few things up in my books," Greg said, refusing to move. "Hope that's not a problem."

It was a problem, actually, no matter what either of them would have liked me to think. It was the biggest problem we'd ever had since we discovered a nest of rats in the house's foundation. Unlike the rats, however, this nest of criminals had gotten too comfortable to ever be exterminated. It made all the difference now that they'd got on Greg's good side; because that meant he'd never push them out without a fight.

"Very well, I'll go downstairs for a moment. Come get me if there's any change."

"Right."

And so, because I was alone in my misgivings, I would instead have to play janitor to take care of our second troublemaker's mess. If either of my parents were there with me now, I suppose they would have talked me into helping, due to our guest being too weak to stand up, too miserable to speak, or some other such nonsense to gain my sympathy. He might have been truly ill for all we knew, but on the other hand, how much of that illness was real and how much of it was faked? Moreover, was it some run-of-the-mill virus, or a sickness that he'd brought on entirely by himself?

I thought this matter over further as I searched downstairs for the rug-cleaning vacuum, for without it, that stain would probably be there forever. That, and it would leave a terrible stink besides, if such a thing could ever imitate the person that made it. If I survived this encounter, I'd tell the little upstart to go wash up before he knocked us all unconscious with his foul odor.

I happened to pass one of the windows leading to the front walkway as I went along. Just outside the front door, I spotted a Christmas wreath hanging from the lamppost, a sure sign that a fifth person was making her yearly rounds. More importantly, I was relieved to notice her trademark box of English shortbread waiting for us on the coffee table. Our third visitor had left both of her calling cards behind, thank goodness…but at the moment, where was she hiding?

I only had to glance out of the corner of my eye before I finally saw her standing behind me.

"Well, well, what have we here? A night watchman caught with his back turned?"


	4. Chapter 4:  Georgina

**Author's Note:** I solemnly swear to never follow the crowd and instead do my own thing as long as I write for this fandom. That being said, I'm sticking with doing romance for that other droogie, Pete. Consider Chapter 21 inspiration for a _different_ sort of love from this fan. ;)

P.S.: This story is the sixth in line of my ACO fic series, and takes place after 'Don't', 'Sweet Moloko', 'Voices of Korova' (rated M), 'Surprise Visit', and 'Nachinat'. Go take a peek to get caught up if you haven't yet, and then come give this a read. Oh, yes…and this upcoming character is NOT a Mary Sue, she is one-half of one of the very few canon pairings in the full-length novel version of this creation. Even though she doesn't show up until the very end, she still caught my attention, so… (takes deep breath) Here she is, Bog help me, I can write no other. Thank you and goodnight.

**Georgina**

It was a day like so many before it, and a day I would remember for the rest of my life.

"Well, well, what have we here? A night watchman caught with his back turned?"

It was a routine visit to three friends, and an unexpected encounter with someone who would one day be so much more than that.

"Maybe it is and maybe it isn't. Just how long have you been standing there, Georgina?"

Back then, I'd smiled and giggled as Matthew got his first taste of my annual Christmas shortbread, delivered to our friend Greg's house straight out of my flat's minuscule oven.

"Long enough to catch _you_ unawares, obviously."

Little did I know that I'd end up doing a lot more than just chatting and snacking on desserts.

"It's a bit quiet down here today…where are the others? Didn't they remember I was coming?"

There was an odd look in Matthew's eyes as he finished his bit of shortbread in time to answer me.

"Maybe they would have, if we hadn't received that odd distraction last night." 

"Distraction?"

"A surprise guest. Greg's upstairs tending to him, and John, too."

"Tending? Does that mean our new guest is hurt?"

The expression on his face was grave; yet he made no hurry to leave the kitchen.

"Hurt enough, but I wouldn't worry about it. It's probably just a passing thing—"

He seemed content to stay behind, but I couldn't feel the same way even if I tried. I had walked out of the room and started up the stairs long before he could finish his sentence, and by the time he caught up with me, I had pushed open the door to the white room so that I could see this unexpected 'distraction' for myself.

"_Gigi_!"

Whatever Greg and John had been up to before, they stopped it long enough to welcome me inside.

"Our apologies, we didn't expect you for another hour…is everything all right?"

"It's fine, I just decided to deliver your wreath a bit early, that's all," I answered the good Doctor. "I see you decided to take your work home with you…"

I peered around both men on purpose, and what I saw—or rather, who—both shocked and interested me. There on the pretend hospital bed was a thin, pale young person with golden-brown hair and eyes that were so dark grey, they seemed almost black. He also seemed as though he'd been in the fight of his life, for his lower lip was cracked and stained with dried blood, and there was a puffy, swollen spot where his right eye would normally have been. I didn't feel disgusted or afraid of him in the slightest, though, because to me he looked like how an angel might after a long battle with the forces of evil. No image ever existed of such a fight's aftermath, of course, yet I found myself imagining such things anyways, along with a few other things I wouldn't dare mention out loud.

"More like he followed us home," John joked, taking a seat beside the bed. "Oh, mummy, mummy, can we keep him? Please, please, _please_?"

"_Keep_ him?" Matthew protested, finally joining us. "We can't keep a person locked up here, it wouldn't be decent. And anyways, John, I notice you haven't bothered to ask him where his parents are, or you either, Greg, for that matter! What if they're missing him this very moment, and calling the policemen as we speak? Do you really want us to get accused of kidnapping?"

"My mum couldn't call anybody even if she wanted to," a weak, scratchy voice interrupted us. "She can't hear or speak to save her life. She'd have to use a text machine to get someone's attention, and hope they got her messages in time. She was born deaf, just like my dad."

The gray-eyed angel had spoken up at last, and I felt an odd shiver travel up my spine as I listened to his words.

"I see," I began, hoping he didn't hear that shiver reach my voice. "And did she give you a text machine of your own to get in touch with her?"

His eyes met mine right then and there, and for a moment I could have sworn he knew everything I'd been thinking about just by looking at me.

"Left pocket, trousers, over there on the table."

I'd glanced at the table just in time to hear a slight buzzing coming from the pocket he'd indicated. Once I'd pulled it out to take a look for myself, I noticed small captions on the screen such as, 'Where are you?', 'Are you OK?' and '5 min to answer, then I go down to the station'. Whoever this person was that owned this machine, he had been out of touch with his mother for quite a while.

"Let me see it."

I returned it without a single protest, and watched him frown slightly as he, too, read the messages that had been left behind.

"Twelve hours…she'll have worried herself to death by now. She's probably at the police station right now, asking them to help her find out where I went."

"Well, let's just text her back and set things straight," I offered, reaching down to borrow his little black square machine. "We'll just explain what happened and then—"

"—_No_."

Frowning, he pulled the text device out of my reach.

"No, we can't just explain what I was up to. She's never had any idea what I've been doing, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Oh, really? What have you been doing, and why can't she—"

"—I don't want to talk about it."

"Look, now, whoever you are, your mother's clearly very—"

"—I said, I _don't_ want to talk about it!"

That beaten angel looked angry then, so very angry that I retreated a few steps with both hands raised.

"Okay, okay, I'm _sorry_! You want your mum to worry her heart out, you go right ahead. Forget _I_ ever spoke up!"

His anger switched over to the look of a person who'd just been slapped in the face, and with it, I could have almost sworn I'd seen a few tears leave his eyes.

"I already worried her enough," he whispered, turning his attention to the floor. "All these years, too many _years_…"

Confused, I looked from the stranger to Matthew, Matthew to John, and finally John to Greg, who answered me with a quiet shake of his head. 

"There must have been a fight," he told me, leaving his place by the door to move closer to where I stood. "A bad one, to be sure. That was how we found him the moment he walked into this house."

"So he showed up at the doorway?"

"At a little more than twelve hours ago, yes, he did."

"And…and he had those clothes on at the time?"

"Mostly white, but with a black hat and a pair of black boots."

Greg's face remained calm, but I noticed a small twitch from Matthew and a few mumbled words from John that I couldn't make out.

"All right, so…so what happened then? Did he say anything?"

"He seemed a little preoccupied with getting a drink of water," John answered, cracking a smile. "The good Doctor was all too happy to indulge him."

"And then?"

"A little bit of first-aid, but nothing too serious," said Greg. "At least, it didn't seem that way last night. Right now, things just got a little bit complicated."

"Why? Why did it just get complicated? What's going on?"

He went silent for about a minute or so, probably taking some time to pick his words carefully so that I wouldn't feel confused over what he had to say. I'd never been one to know all the deep, technical doctor's jargon, so it made sense to me that he might have to break his explanation down into more understandable terms.

"Issues," he said at last, clasping his hands behind his back. "Our new friend might have some, ah…mental issues to work out first, and I also suspect a few physical ones on the side. We're going to need somewhere to figure these issues out, and let him rest in the meantime."

He glanced towards the door and frowned.

"It's the hospital we'll need."

"_No_."

I could see right away that his latest patient didn't share his viewpoint. The frightened look in his eyes told me much more than words ever could.

"No, we don't need no hospitals, the white room's just fine. It's warmer in here, and comfortable, too. Why go out into the cold when we can just stay in the white room?"

"The white room only has the basics for you," Greg countered. "We could watch your pulse and treat you for the common cold, but no more than that. Do you really want to leave yourself in that position, when the hospital could do so much more?"

He didn't want to, but he made himself nod in agreement anyways. Whatever his issues, they would have to be taken care of under the watch of strangers instead of a few new acquaintances. I could still understand his personal wishes, though, because this room looked and felt as safe to me as it must have looked to him. We would need to come back here as soon as he got released, of course, if only to sit down as friends and talk a while.

"All right, then. There's a few spare things in the closet over there. They're a bit old, but at least wearing them will keep anyone from asking a load of questions."

"All right."

A small flurry of activity, and then that gray-eyed angel had been sent to a corner so that he could put on a red flannel shirt and a faded pair of denims. I respectfully lowered my eyes until he'd dressed himself, but not before seeing the same bruises on his face copied onto his neck, arms, and legs also. They were large, purple spots against his pale skin, and the sight of them made me feel sick to my stomach. Who on earth would be cruel enough to leave someone like him battered, bruised, and in need of a hospital? What did they think he could have done to deserve such horrible treatment? Had they been content to let him go the way he was, or would they come back to put him through some more pain later?

On the other hand…why would he set himself up to be hurt as badly as he had been? What sort of person would go out every night dressed like that, especially in the snow? What was it about this stranger that made Matthew so nervous, John so secretive, and himself so unwilling to answer my questions? What did my friends know about him that they could not share openly with me?

"Time to go, I think."

The others had put on their coats in the meantime, and John found a spare woolen jacket and an old pair of shoes to help our new friend bundle up as well. I would have to do the same if I wanted to follow them, which of course I did. The problem was, I wanted to stay here and get all my questions answered just as much.

"We should tell his mum just where it is we're off to," I insisted. "She'll have his face all over Missing Persons if we don't."

"It's taken care of," our patient rasped. "I don't know if she'll get the message in time, but at least I sent it."

"That's…that's good, then. Really good. I hope she feels better knowing you're all right."

I attempted a smile for his sake, and felt a little less nervous when I noticed him try to smile back. When I reached down to touch his hand, however, he jerked it away as though I'd tried to burn him.

"_Don't_," he snapped, suddenly defensive. "I don't want to start any trouble in front of your boyfriend."

My face stung as though I'd just been slapped, and I felt my jaw clench. I had spent barely five minutes with this new boy, and already he wanted to write me off as someone else's property. As if that could be my only reason for showing up at Greg's house! As if that could be my only purpose in speaking to Greg, never mind the people he hung out with!

I wouldn't go down that easily, though, especially not in front of him. He had a lot to learn about me, and today was the best time to start.

"That's very thoughtful, but he's _not_ my boyfriend," I said firmly, matching his glare with one of my own.

"Do you have anything against being comforted, or would you rather get such treatment from a man instead of a woman?"

He had no more choice words for me after that, for all he could do at that point was blush and turn away, shaking his head. I took that as a sign that he wasn't entirely repulsed by my presence, and so tried touching his hand again. This time, he didn't flinch or pull away, but rather squeezed my fingers in silent apology. With his bruises and sadness fresh in my mind, I didn't hesitate to squeeze back.

"Well, there we are, then," Greg chuckled, glancing knowingly between us. "I trust you'll have no problems sitting in the back seat?"

"Not at all," I answered, feeling myself blush for once. It was odd how I'd gone from telling this stranger off to letting him hold my hand, and yet some part of me had no second thoughts or remorse over what I was doing. There had been no threatening looks from him when I'd first entered that white room, and neither had he made any move to hurt me, not even now when we walked side by side to Greg's car. I considered that a good sign for someone I'd barely just met. Perhaps if I remained as patient as I felt now, we could continue to bond in this manner, and so return to that white room as I'd imagined us to do.

"I'll keep an eye on them just to be safe," John joked, opening the door and then stepping aside to let us slide in first. "Two eyes, even. You can't be too careful with young people these days, can you?"

At the same time, I knew that I wasn't being careful where this stranger was concerned. I had ran upstairs to see him as soon as I knew he was there, I had refused to listen to Matthew's veiled warning, and to top it off, I'd been so bold as to touch his hand without hearing his name, let alone his story of just how he'd come to Greg's house in the first place. I could have easily gotten myself hurt at this stranger's hands if I had been alone, or for that matter, without any wreaths or shortbread to distract him first.

For all I knew, first and foremost, I could have just held hands with someone on the top of the Most Wanted list. I knew also that I should have been scared to death of this person, and so kept my distance until my friends and I truly knew him better. I knew that I should have felt lucky that my three friends had been there to help keep our situation under control, and so make sure that no harm would come to me, let alone to themselves. And last but not least, I knew that whatever he had been up to before that had earned him those bruises, he could have easily done just that to someone else, especially me.

Yes, I knew all those things and more, but I felt none of them in my heart. Instead, I could only feel that hospital or no hospital, I wanted to do whatever I could to make those bruises go away.


	5. Chapter 5: Pete

**Author's Note:** Before I begin, I would like to say to anyone celebrating Chinese New Year and who might be reading this at the same time, 'Gung Hay Fat Choy', 'Kong Xi Fa Tsai', or 'Kiong Hee Huat Tsai' depending on where you live. Best wishes to you and yours.

Second, it's been exactly one year since I submitted my first ACO fanfiction, 'Don't', and started my journey into this fandom. I began with a simple idea on what might have happened to Pete based on events from both the novel and the film. Back then, I knew only three things about this character—first, he preferred to either escape or resolve conflicts rather than start them; second, he had vanished without a trace after a failed house robbery in which Georgie suffered a fatal blow to the head from their would-be victim; and third, he doesn't reappear again until eighteen months have passed and the crap done to an already-crappy individual (who, in my opinion, just became even MORE crappy because he could lie better about it all) had run its course.

I couldn't identify at all with the self-serving, psychopathic narrator; the giant who loved brute force; or the complaining gold-digger, otherwise known as Alex, Dim, and Georgie respectively. What I could identify with was the quiet kid who, even with his questionable morals, still tried to do the right thing for his pals even when they wanted to tear each other apart, and when that failed, pushed his crooked morality aside and tried to do right by his wife instead. That character brought me here, put ideas into my head, and helped me create the six stories about him that you now see before you. I don't know how long I'll be able to write these fics, but at least I have a good head start.

And so, I give my thanks to PandaLove01, Dan Sickles, ChaosAndMayhem, and Straha I Molchaniya for leaving such helpful feedback; and thanks also to the anonymous others who opened their minds and gave this fic series a chance by reading it. I could not have done this without your help, and so here's to six more stories about this sweet little malchick.

**Pete**

"I don't want to be here," I whispered, shivering. "I want to go home."

There'd been a rule in place in the hospital that said patients coming in off the street had to get an all-over wash before admittance. That was where I'd been for the past twenty minutes or so, letting the nurse scrub at my cuts and rub shampoo into my hair. It didn't sting any more, thank goodness, not since last night. In fact, I could feel myself warming up after that drive in a cold car, and once I'd been taken care of, the nurse had promised, there would be a soft, comfortable bed waiting for me upstairs.

Unfortunately, as good as rest and relaxation sounded to me, I still couldn't make myself relax. I'd already had one panic attack earlier this morning, and I could feel a second one coming on fast. There was something about the smell of a hospital that made me uneasy, so I could not yet tell if I would feel better about it soon, if at all. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a full meal, and neither did I know if I could keep one down or not. I hadn't felt right at all since last night, and for one good reason—history was about to repeat itself.

"You'll be there before you know it," the nurse answered me, completely unaware about what I was thinking. "All you have to do is rest, take medicines, get well…"

Her voice faded in and out of the background, and with it, my mind wandered back and forth between the past and the present.

I had thrown myself into the path of three strangers without asking them any questions about who they were or what they did for a living. Could I have behaved any _more_ stupidly than that? I was repeating what I did with another trio six years ago, only this time, I wasn't sure whether or not they wanted a fight. A fourth stranger had joined us the morning after, and neither had she bothered to ask any questions about me—at least, not the important ones. She _should_ have asked me point-blank how I'd found Greg's house, what I was doing there, and why I looked as bad as I did. Instead, she'd only asked about how long I had been in the white room; when I had arrived there; and what I'd been wearing at the time.

Was that a good idea? Should she have been so unaware and naïve about me, especially with everything I could have done to her? It had been a very long time since I'd harmed a woman, but I could still remember just how to do it under the right circumstances.

Come to think of it, should _any_ of these strangers trusted me at all, when I could have harmed them much too easily? There was no telling what I could do to them, especially if they provoked me just the right way and had no weapons to hold me off. They trusted me way _too_ much. Why would they put themselves in this kind of danger, anyway? Didn't John tell them anything about what our kind was famous for? Did he hope to show them an example of our behavior instead, or did he stop caring about them as soon as I entered the picture? Did he want to watch me harm another woman so badly, or was he planning to do it himself, and then put all the blame on me?

"All right, we're finished. Up you get."

I stood up slowly, gripping one of the tub's rails to keep from fainting, as my head had begun to spin. This nurse had no idea just how lucky she was that I felt so weak and worried. Instead of me standing numbly still while she dried me off, I could have been tempted to touch her where she wouldn't want to be touched, and perhaps also felt next to nothing while I did it. Even if I tried that, and even if she slapped me as hard as she could, I might not feel the sting of her hand. I hadn't felt all that much these past six months besides anger and pain, and even those feelings were fading fast. Soon, I'd be as lifeless and unfeeling as those statues back at the Korova. Soon, there wouldn't be much of me left besides a walking, talking shell of a malchick. Would they be able to handle me once that had happened? Would they find some rare, unheard-of way to bring me back, or would I also cause them to become cold and lifeless…?

"There we are. How do you feel now?"

A new pair of underwear, two socks, and a hooded white bodysuit waited for me on a nearby table; and the nurse was all too kind to help me put them on.

"Better," I half-lied, not wanting to frighten her with the truth. "Do I get to go and rest now?"

"Yes and no," she answered me truthfully. "I mean to say…there is a bed waiting and all that, but they'll also have to ask you some questions and maybe run a few tests. Do you feel up to it?"

My eyes were only half-open, my limbs ached, and I wasn't sure just how long I could stay awake. Of _course_ I could go through a prodding and poking session for the doctors' amusement. _That_ would make my day.

"Maybe."

"Lovely! Right this way, please."

She led me through the washroom doors and into a narrow, white hallway where a wheelchair had been left behind for my sake. As soon as I'd taken a seat inside it, she then wheeled me into the nearby elevator, which in turn brought me to an upper floor where my room would be. Along the way, she tried starting up a few conversations about the weather, if I had a cold or not, and just how I'd managed to find so _many_ men under the same roof. I did my best to answer her, but at the same time, I would have loved nothing better than to tolchock her over the head for being so cheery.

Truthfully, maybe I should have tolchocked them all over the head for not thinking as critically as they needed to.

Either I'd done a horribly good job of pretending to be normal, or else they'd seen right through my injuries and misery to the troublemaker underneath, and stayed quiet on purpose. I knew that at in the morning, a short while before we left, the one called Greg had sent the one called Matthew out to get the cleaning vacuum to fix the mess I'd left on the carpet. Had he gotten the machine as his friend asked him to do, or had that been a cover-up to calling the police on me?

Maybe I deserved that sort of thing after barging in uninvited and ruining their games. Maybe I also deserved it for spoiling what would have been a normal, quiet morning for them and that devotchka they called Gigi. She wasn't Greg's girlfriend, of course, but that didn't mean she couldn't have been dating one of the others instead. For that, I could have not only angered them and trespassed on their relationship, but also forced them to take drastic steps. And for that, maybe I could understand all that they felt, thought, and wanted to punish me with, even though I'd never had a girlfriend myself. Maybe I would have even welcomed that punishment, too, given all the wandering and fighting I had done between six months ago and today.

With a small dinging sound and a creak, the nurse explained to me that we had reached the testing floor. I was wheeled to the tenth door on the right, and then into a room similar to the one I had left behind. The walls and bed were also white, but the floor had a large red tiled cross on it, and just about all of the surrounding cabinets had red doors attached to them. How fitting for someone about to get a bunch of needles stuck into him.

"Here we are, dear."

There was just one railing standing between me and a moment of rest, and the nurse took care of that quick enough to please me. After that, all I had to do was leave my wheelchair, pull back the blankets, and climb inside. I wouldn't be able to lose myself to sleep, however, for both the lights and the doctor's tests would not be shut off so easily. What I could do was look around, and look around I did.

When the nurse left me there, I saw a load of things that seemed like they belonged in the sickbay of some spaceship—a few monitors here and there, a scanning station, a computer station, and a few more objects I had no name for. Had there been some crazy mistake, me being left in this high-tech chamber when I really should have just been brought to a simple little office? What happened to all the normal, simple tests, like getting weighed and measured to check your growth? Was that what the scanner would be used for, or did they plan to do more complex things to me, like finding out my bone mass and checking my brain waves?

I did not have to think long on that, for after three or four minutes, the doctor had come in to see me. He looked and sounded like one of those older, fatherly types. Too bad, I'd have loved to get another visit from Greg. It was a shame today was Christmas, otherwise he might have not had the day off and would have made his rounds through the hospital, including to my room. Instead, I would have to deal with this doctor and hope he knew how to diagnose a person really quickly like the other one could. A part of me had gotten tired of wandering around and feeling bad and not knowing what had gone wrong inside my body, and so today I would cooperate the best way I knew how.

That big scanning station was my first stop after all, for this other doctor ended up using it to take a look at me from head to foot. It was a sort of machine that could test for abnormal pulses and low weights and other serious medical stuff like that, and once that machine had looked long enough at me, it spit out its findings from a slot on one side like an automatic teller machine spat out receipts and balances. I had not been eating as well or as much as I should have, the machine said, because at my age of almost nineteen, I'd suddenly dropped to 59 kg when I should have been on my way to 70 kg. That also explained why I'd been feeling so weak and a bit depressed, because a steady diet of the old moloko and a few other meals here and there were not helping me at all. I couldn't have helped that, though, not even if I had wanted to. Losing two friends in one night had made me do all of that, and quite a few other things as well. I couldn't tell the doctor my exact story, of course, so instead I just nodded in silence and pulled the scanner's bedsheet up around me a little more.

To fix it, that doctor said, I would have to spend the next two weeks in my little hospital room upstairs, and then eat and drink as much as I could every day so that my kilograms would go back to where they were supposed to be. According to that scanner, I would also have to keep my hands clean, cover my mouth and nose when I sneezed, and take a bit of the cold medicine every few hours, because I must have caught something bad a few days ago and was in for a lot of coughing and sneezing ahead. I merely nodded again and didn't say a word, but only because I knew I hadn't caught a single thing from anyone else. It was me wandering around in the snow in my old white uniform that did that. I'd had to learn that the hard way just now, because no one had ever thought to warn me or any of the others whilst we were living under little Alex's yoke. Ah, well…better late than never, right right?

"Well, that's it, then," I said, half to myself and half to that other friendly doctor. "I won't be going home anytime soon, will I? That's it. That's all, folks."

What I wanted was to hide away in my real room, down some honey and lemon tea, and sign away to my worried Em about how bad I felt for disappearing and not leaving her any messages that I was a little bit all right. What I got was a mumbled apology from the second good doctor and a wish for better health; another reappearance of the nice nurse; and a long, quiet trip back to this other room for me that was also done up in white and red. That was where I could finally creep into bed like I'd wanted to from the start, and then either rest my eyes or wonder if my Em had arrived yet, and see whether or not she was asking for me this very minute. Sleeping would have been the easy way, because then she wouldn't have come to talk to me until after I had woken up. I didn't feel like taking the easy way this time, though. All I wanted was to see my old Em and prove to her that I was still alive, as well as on the mend in good time. It was the least I could do for her, after all those times I'd run off and not come back until before the sunrise.

"Have you been to the waiting room lately?" I asked her, pulling the covers up as far as they would go without hiding underneath them.

"Not since they first admitted you," she answered me. "Why?"

"I think my mum should be there any minute now. You'll send her up here, won't you? When she comes, I mean?"

"Of course we will, dear. Visiting hours started a moment ago, I don't see why not."

For now, I could feel a little bit more at ease, at least until she came into my room and I could see her for real. Until that time came, all I could do now was sit quietly and, just in case she had any questions for me, figure out my answers long before she asked them. After all the disappearing, lying, and stealing I'd done in the past, I owed her the most truthful explanation that the present could offer.

* * *

_-To Be Continued in the Sequel, "Lost and Found". Thank you for reading.-_


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